


This Time (I'm Telling You, I'm Telling You)

by sparklyslug



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Based on a Taylor Swift Song, Breaking Up & Making Up, Cuddling & Snuggling, Established Relationship, Exes, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-05
Updated: 2015-05-05
Packaged: 2018-03-29 04:34:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3882496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sparklyslug/pseuds/sparklyslug
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He and Zimms, they’re pretty good at breakups, historically. They’re pretty good at what comes after the breakup, anyway.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This Time (I'm Telling You, I'm Telling You)

**Author's Note:**

> Endless thanks to the wonderful defcontwo, who beta'd through the pain of Kent Parson's tragic life. Such a champ.

“Not, umm,” Jack pauses, takes a breath. “Not that I’m complaining, but what changed your mind?”

Kent shifts in Jack’s lap, hums thoughtfully as he traces a finger down the shell of Jack’s ear. Jack shivers, and Kent puts his other hand flat on Jack’s chest to feel it a little better.

“Played like hell today,” is all he says. Jack’s eyebrows go up, because what kind of an excuse is _that_.

Which is fair. Even if it is true, in a way. The whole team had played like hell, disjointed and messy and passing up opportunities they shouldn’t have passed up. It was just a practice, so it wasn’t a huge deal. And Kent is basically sure that it wasn’t because he’d suggested they cool off for a while, since it wasn’t like— it had just been an occasional thing for the past few months, not enough to throw either of them off their game.

But they’d trudged back to the locker room, and tired as he was, Jack had gone right into Captain mode and said his bit and smiled at them all. Kent had just been looking up at Jack, waiting for that smile to come around to him. And thought, _you know what, maybe we could keep this going a little longer. Maybe I’ll see if he wants to, too._

Kent’s still trying to figure out a way to put this that isn’t so completely embarrassing, when Jack surges up to press his lips to Kent’s. Clumsy, too fast, almost painful until it…isn’t.

And really, that’s why Kent changed his mind.

~~

Kent shakes his head, looking up at the hideous fucking stucco of the ceiling, and tries to get a proper grip on the slippery leather of the couch.

“I swear, I really did just want to come over for ‘Band of Brothers’.”

Jack looks up from where he’s sucking on Kent’s hip bone, and _fuck_ , it’s only been like three days. But it feels damn good to see that smile again, the way Jack’s eyes light up when they hit Kent and there’s no one around to see it.

“You don’t care about watching ‘Band of Brothers’,” he says.

“No, but—“ but he wanted them to get back to normal. He wanted to show that he could be cool with this, if this is what Jack wants. He wanted to make sure he still had his best friend, even if he didn’t have all that other stuff anymore. Even if it meant watching Jack’s dumb TV shows when they could be doing something – anything – else.

Turns out, Jack’s okay with the ‘anything else.’

“So, are we—“ Kent tries again, because Jack’s nosing at his dick through his basketball shorts and he’s going to be getting pretty non-verbal in a second. “Are we starting this again? Because you said—“

“Forget what I said,” Jack mutters without looking up, lips brushing over Kent’s dick. “I was just—just forget what I said.”

~~

“What is this,” Jack says flatly.

Kent looks at him skeptically.

“No, I’m serious,” Jack says, because Kent’s got him on a pissy night, apparently. _But at least I’ve got him_ , Kent thinks before he can stop himself. Jack’s got his hands firmly over Kent’s, stopping their upward progress from Jack’s knees. It’s almost worth the pissy attitude, to feel the tension jumping under his palms. “This is so stupid, Kenny.”

Kent lets the barb roll off him, because he happens to agree. It is stupid. It was stupid, to think that they’d be better off without this. It was stupid to think that he could be around Zimms and just stop wanting this. In the locker room, on the ice, playing the way they play. Around the guys, at the dinner tables of their respective billet families, being the way they are. It was stupid to think that he’d be able to watch Zimms take a long draw from a beer bottle and not immediately need to get his hands all over him.

It had felt smart at the time, Kent knows. Felt smart to stop this before it got too big, and before they got caught. That felt smart. But now, leaning into Jack’s face and seeing how his eyes flick down to Kent’s lips, he knows it was the dumbest he’s been in—well, at least a few weeks.

But that’s a lot to put to words, when he’d really rather be peeling Jack out of that black t-shirt.

“Yeah,” Kent says. “But since when is ‘stupid’ something new for us?”

That earns him a surprised laugh, and an easing of the pressure from Jack’s hands. Kent doesn’t move his own though, waits for Jack to shake his head (the “god Kenny you are ridiculous” shake that Kent is so very familiar with) and close his eyes.

Kent doesn’t kiss him soft, yet. Jack doesn’t like that much, when they’ve only just picked back up again where they left off. But he will.

~~

“Fuck you,” Kent hisses.

“Got that a little backwards, eh?” Jack says with a grin, a little out of breath himself.

He’s leaning over Kent, braced on one elbow while his other hand is two fingers deep in Kent’s ass, moving slow. Moving so slow. Kent’s hand is locked over Jack’s shoulder, gripping so tight that he wonders if he’ll leave marks. He hopes he does.

Kent’s furious. Has been for the past few days after Jack had told him it was— after this time when they’d— but he’s been _especially_ furious the past hour. Furious when Jack just followed him out to his car after the game, furious when he just followed Kent inside, furious when he ripped Kent out of his sweatshirt and kissed him, Jack’s hands up in his hair and cradling the back of his head.

“Fuck you,” Kent says again, closing his eyes. “Thought you really meant it this time.”

“I’m sorry,” Jack says, and really sounds it.

“Sure,” Kent pants. “But just because we’re not—Just because this isn’t—I know that you want—”

“Shhh,” Jack says, leaning down and brushing a kiss to Kent’s forehead.

That shocks Kent into silence. Which lasts until Jack’s taken away his fingers and is lined up to push into him,  sinking into Kent in one careful motion that makes Kent hope that he’s really—that he’s really here for this. Kent’s got both hands on him now, but they can’t settle. Jack’s shoulders, his neck, his ribs, his hair.

“You can’t keep doing this to me,” Kent says, in a breathless whine that’s almost inaudible.

Jack freezes for a second, but still doesn’t look away. “I’ll stop if you will,” he says.

Kent doesn’t have an answer for that. The bad habit of pathetic honesty when he’s being fucked cuts both ways: not saying anything when he should, as well as saying things when he shouldn’t. He just shakes his head, closes his eyes, and sticks to chanting Jack’s name with only the occasional “fuck you” and “god, too good” and “gorgeous.”

Jack doesn’t look away. His mouth’s gone slack with concentration or pleasure or both, but it twitches up in a smile when Kent arches up and his stream of nonsense hitches to a stop.

~~

Neither of them says anything. It’s different this time.

Jack rubs small circles into Kent’s shoulder, pressing a kiss to the back of his neck right above the collar of his t-shirt. Kent pushes back against him a little, just to feel the press of stomach and belt buckle and thighs lined up behind his own.

He won’t ask Jack why he takes so many, more than he could possibly need. He won’t ask Jack why he drinks the way he does. He won’t press Jack on his sudden friendship with Sharkey’s cousin, when they all know what kind of guy he is. Not this time, not right now, not given the blowup which had almost broken them both two weeks ago.

And maybe they’re fixed, now. It feels almost like it, even if getting back together has never been quite like this before. “Getting back together,” fuck, like there’s some fixed “together” you can get back to. When together just means being what you are, connected so tightly in every way that matters. Which makes the disconnects even harder to bear, and no less involuntary. “Dating” is a decision you make. Kent’s never felt he had any decision to make when it comes to Jack.

It’s too bright, in Jack’s room. Jack’s touching him gently, skimming his hand down Kent’s shoulders and his side and even down to his hip, but there’s no sense that this is working towards anything any time soon. No urgency to being pressed close like this, fully-clothed.

It’s Kent’s fault. Jack opened the door and didn’t immediately shut it in his face, and Kent had just fucking fallen into his arms. He hadn’t thought about it in the moment, he had just taken in the look on Jack’s face – a messy blend of hope and fear and anger and shame – and had needed to pull him into a fierce hug, mouth opening against Zimms’ neck but nothing coming out.

If he had just kissed Jack then, had just shoved his hands down his pants or something, maybe he wouldn’t be feeling so shaky and scared right now.

Kent reaches behind him, draws Jack’s arm over his waist and threads their fingers together. Presses their entwined hands against his chest, under his chin. Jack squeezes his hand briefly, settling in closer to Kent and pressing another kiss to the skin behind Kent’s ear. There’s so much shit that’s out in the open right now, shit that he probably shouldn’t ignore. Probably can’t ignore. But it’s too bright in Jack’s room, and he can feel Jack’s heartbeat against his back, and Kent’s just so happy. So happy to be here. To have this.

Maybe they’re fixed now. But Kent’s never felt so shattered.

~~

Last time Kent had come to Samwell, he hadn’t gotten one-on-one time with Jack. Jack hadn’t just shut him out, he’d fucking bolted—his room was empty, and had stayed empty for a solid hour. Kent had left after that, because the party was winding down around him and shit, but it felt really creepy to be there alone.

This time, Jack’s in his room. This time, the door’s not locked.

There are breakups, and then there are breakups. Kent’s not seventeen anymore. He knows you can break up without ever having put a name to what you were doing. He knows what a breakup is even when no one says “we’re over,” and it’s just one person yelling into a phone that never gets picked up.

He and Zimms, they’re pretty good at breakups, historically. Well—Kent lets the smile rise up at the thought—they’re pretty good at what comes after the breakup. Still, Kent feels tense, and tight, still punchy with the adrenaline that carried him to Samwell from Boston. They never had a breakup like this last one. Kent can’t venture to guess what the makeup will— _might,_ Parson, Jesus Christ get it together— look like.

Their on-again, off-again stuff felt pretty serious at the time, probably. They seem more like jokes now. Kent suggesting they stop making out after every party. Jack thinking they should focus on the game. Kent acting like a baby after Jack flirted with some girl at a party. Jack trying to call it off because of some comment his dad made. Kent trying to get Jack to tell him what the fuck was going on with him and the pills and the booze and the—okay, even now that doesn’t feel like much of a joke.

But even that last one, they’d gotten past that eventually. And they’d been better than ever, within a day or two. The way they always were.

Maybe they could work that magic again, bounce back, just one more time.  

“What about Las Vegas?” Kent asks, and it’s like it’s the secret password. Jack’s stepped up close to him while they talked, close enough now for Kent to reach out, run his hand along Jack’s arm from his wrist up to his elbow.

Jack sucks in a breath, looks down at Kent’s hand.

“I want to play with you again,” Kent says, whispers it in the space between them. “Don’t you want that too?”

Jack’s eyes snap back to Kent’s face, and drop down to his lips.

“Parse—“ Jack groans, and Kent steps in. Jack’s hand is on his hip and dragging him closer before Kent’s even rocking up to meet him halfway in their first kiss in years.

In minutes, in seconds, it’s all going to go to hell. Kent will fuck up a little, then Jack will lose his cool, and then Kent will fuck up worse. There’ll be that guy outside in the hallway, and Kent will spend his whole drive back to Boston trying not to think about the way that guy looked up at Jack. He’ll spend most of the game tomorrow trying not to think about Jack at all, and will get reamed out by Coach for power play points the Bruins score while he’s cooling down in the penalty box after a few pointless fights.

But in that moment, Kent’s name only barely out of Jack’s mouth, they were back. Kent’s hat falls to the ground, Jack’s hands in his hair again. Kent focuses on Jack’s mouth opening against his, the brush of tongues and teeth and how Jack sighs into it. He’s got skin under his fingertips, Jack’s hips fitting into Kent’s palms like they were made to be there. Jack moans, soft, when Kent rolls their hips together. Gently, just a gentle press to tell him how this could go.

How it never actually goes. And— Kent fights the thought, fights it harder than he has in five years—how it may never go again.

Breaking it off before making it up again, that’s a pattern that holds for them. When they were younger, there was so much Kent didn’t understand about this thing between him and Jack. But even then, he knew this much: that they would find their way back to being together again. The Parson-Zimmermann no-look pass in action, Jack rocketing towards Kent, who’s ready and waiting to receive him. And vice-versa.

Muscle memory only takes you so far. Practice, repetition, that’s all part of the game. But warm-ups are nothing compared to the moment that really matters, the knife’s edge between success and failure that Kent’s chosen to dedicate his life to, for reasons he can never exactly articulate. Sometimes, green rookies score game-winning goals. Sometimes, first-round draft picks score on their own goalie. That’s the game. The best and worst of it, right there.

Sometimes, Kent tries to get Jack back, and fails. That doesn’t mean it’s a definitive loss. That doesn’t mean it’s forever.

It’s just. There’s a first time for everything, right?

 

**Author's Note:**

> The original idea was to write a fun smutty fic inspired by "We Are Never Ever Getting Back Together," which is clearly not even a LITTLE bit what actually happened. Curse you, Taylor Swift. Curse you. 
> 
> Hearts as always to my favorite twitter lunatics.


End file.
